


Breathing Space

by Jennistar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, spoilers for the tv series, which was incredible by the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennistar/pseuds/Jennistar
Summary: “It's just us,” Crowley says, quieter now Aziraphale is looking at him. “Like I said before. There's not really sides anymore. At least for now. And it could be the only chance we ever get. To try it. Just for a bit.”





	Breathing Space

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the Good Omens TV show and this happened. Michael Sheen and David Tennant are a GIFT. Because that shit was ROMANTIC.

The days that follow the Almost Apocalypse are _so_ bright and sunny, almost unnaturally so. It keeps catching Aziraphale by surprise, this beautiful luminance, radiating so much love and peace that his breath keeps catching in his chest at odd moments. He really hopes that eventually Adam will calm himself down because it's very distracting and he is getting almost no work done.

Not that there is any work to actually be done in his New But Not Really New Bookshop, but still. Aziraphale spends these sunny days picking up new children's books, staring at them for a bit, then putting them back in their place again. And Crowley spends the days sitting in the shop drinking wine and watching him. It has occurred to Aziraphale that they don't really know what to do next – they have won their temporary reprieve from their respective occult and ethereal superiors thanks to a nice bit of trickery, but now what? What do you even do with 'breathing space', as Crowley called it? Keep on tempting and thwarting? What would be the point?

It's so _sunny_. The sunlight glows through the windows, stopping Aziraphale for the third time that morning, and his hand falters on a mint first edition copy of _Treasure Island_. And then it falters again, because in that moment when he was distracted, Crowley has come up behind him and put a very tentative, very careful arm around the front of his waist.

Aziraphale freezes. He doesn't want to. He wants to do what he has wanted to do since 1941 when Crowley casually handed him a bag of demonically saved books amongst the wreckage of a bombed church – he wants to take Crowley's face in his hands and kiss it until his lips go numb. But he can't, he never could, for so many reasons, all of which seem foolish in this ridiculously over-the-top, beautiful sunlight.

Crowley's arm is very light around his middle but it's also not moving. After a few heartbeats, he speaks.

“I was thinking,” he says, not really whispering, but his voice is certainly lower than in usually is, echoing in Aziraphale's ear. “About this whole 'breathing space' thing.”

Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley's arm – he couldn't stop himself if he tried. His touch is as gentle as Crowley's, and he realises Crowley's arm is trembling, just a little bit, just enough to tell Aziraphale that he's just as nervous as Aziraphale himself. Aziraphale feels oddly comforted by this revelation.

“Yes?” he prompts, trying to sound braver than he feels.

“They won't be watching us,” says Crowley. “For a bit anyway. And even if they are, they won't have the guts to do anything about what they see. They'll be too busy wondering what we are. And I was thinking...” He trails off. His arm hasn't moved. Aziraphale has the strangest urge to lean back against Crowley, just to see if he can feel if Crowley's heart is going like the clappers. Because his is. Not that they should even have heartbeats.

“Yes?” he prompts again, his voice a bit shakier this time.

Crowley says nothing for a bit, and they just stand in the sunlight, and Aziraphale still has one hand on _Treasure Island_ , even though he wants it to be on Crowley's face.

“I was thinking,” Crowley says, “About that conversation we had in 1862.”

“The one at the duckpond?” Aziraphale asks breezily.

“Yep.”

“That wasn't a conversation, that was a fight.”

“ _Fine_ , the fight we had.” Crowley's arm tightens around Aziraphale's waist just a little in remonstrance and Aziraphale fights the urge to burst into giggles. He relaxes, just a little, into Crowley's hold, and suddenly Crowley's voice is almost right by his ear. “That's not the bit I was thinking about. I was thinking about the _fraternising_ bit.”

Aziraphale panics a bit, turning in Crowley's hold so he can actually see the demon's face. In the sunlight, Crowley's hair is bright red, and his eyes show just a little behind his sunglasses, enough for Aziraphale to know they are staring right at him. Crowley's arm stays where it is, now wrapped around Aziraphale's back, and suddenly everything is a hundred times more intimate.

“It's just us,” Crowley says, quieter now Aziraphale is looking at him. “Like I said before. There's not really sides anymore. At least for now. And it could be the only chance we ever get. To try it. Just for a bit.”

Aziraphale doesn't know what to do with his hands. He wants to touch Crowley's insanely sharp cheekbones. But he doesn't know what to _actually_ do. Instead they sort of hover by his side, not touching anything, certainly not touching Crowley. “There'll be sides again eventually,” he warns.

“But not now,” Crowley rebuffs.

They stare at each other, Aziraphale twitching in Crowley's ever gentle hold. Then Crowley shrugs. “Look, I never said it wasn't a risk. For all I know, once they work out we're nothing special, they will get revenge on us. And if it does become a war between humans and Heaven and Hell, we really will have to pick a side. But that's the future. And this is now. And I don't know, maybe it'll be worth it?”

Really, Aziraphale thinks, it was unfair for Crowley to ask him this while the sun was shining its weird peaceful, loving shine. He looks so damned handsome right now. “You're braver than me,” he confesses at last.

“Nah,” scoffs Crowley. “I'm just a demon. Got less to lose, you know.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“I'm not going to tempt you into this,” Crowley says firmly. “I know I tempt you into a lot of stuff. I practically forced you to become involved in all this Antichrist nonsense – sorry about that, by the way. But I won't tempt you into this. You have to decide yourself. I can't make you make a decision. I know I go too fast for you.”

Aziraphale very sternly tells himself to pull himself together, and the result is that he manages to lay two very uneasy hands on Crowley's chest. He can feel Crowley's heartbeat now, and it _is_ going crazy, just like Aziraphale's. Crowley's arm around him tightens an infinitesimal amount, and Aziraphale has the bizarre idea that by actually touching Crowley he's somehow turned into a terrible tease. Which he suspects is a very 19th century view of things.

“Only chance we've got?” he says, and wonders at his voice, because it has gone so weak.

“Probably,” Crowley replies, very almost as shaky as Aziraphale. “Don't know how long it will last either. Just a bit of time, you know. Some time out of time. And then we'll have to go back to what we were.”

“And,” continues Aziraphale, and his hands move up to Crowley's shoulders without his express say-so, “It might not be worth it?”

Crowley swallows. He actually swallows, Aziraphale sees it. “Might not,” he says. “Or might.”

Aziraphale very carefully moves his hands up to the sides of Crowley's sunglasses, and pushes them up onto Crowley's red-haired head, so he can see his eyes. Crowley does absolutely nothing to stop this. Suddenly his yellow snake eyes are boring into Aziraphale's. In the romantic sunlight, they practically glow. Aziraphale almost loses his nerve again – almost. And then, all at once, he doesn't.

“I suppose there's only one way to find out,” he says, and does what he always, always wanted to do, he takes Crowley's sharp, cheekboned face in his hands and closes his eyes, and leans up, and kisses Crowley square on the mouth.

The world narrows itself down to a handful of sensations – Crowley's arm around his waist, the warmth of sunlight on Aziraphale's back, Crowley's lips against his – very soft, very careful.

Aziraphale has almost never found the world so simple as it is now.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he suspects it will never be this simple again. But it is what it is now, and that's enough, he realises.

And then Crowley parts his lips under Aziraphale's, just a little, and a few more sensations come into play, new ones and by the time they've parted again, Aziraphale's poor almost-mortal body is in overdrive. Suddenly, in this place, in this moment, in the sunlight, nothing else matters.

Crowley has his eyes closed, and they stay closed even when Aziraphale pulls away to look at his sunlight-streaked face. Then he smiles, a long, slow smile of pure satisfaction, and Aziraphale thinks giddily that not even the light of Heaven can outstrip that smile.

“Worth it,” Crowley murmurs, and then opens his eyes, suddenly clearly worried at Aziraphale's reaction.

Aziraphale smiles back, knowing his eyes are sparkling. “Worth it,” he confirms.

 


End file.
